


Absolute Value

by miabicicletta



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:41:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much as she loves movie night, she really doesn’t feel like another terrible sci-fi explosion-fest this evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolute Value

It’s an experiment the first time she kisses him. 

When they aren’t on a mission they can spend their free time as they choose, which means movie night. Frankly, she's been looking forward to the downtime. A trying week of gods and monsters will do that, especially one to follow a difficult week of a less exotic, though still awful, human brand of horribleness. And before that, well, she’d committed suicide, though it didn't quite take. Small mercy, that. 

“Ah, here is!” Fitz rattles a few keys of his MacBook. 

There is something tensile between them lately. A bending. Some tautness she can’t put name to and brought about by the unexpected events of the last weeks. She glances out the window, watching the clear fade of tropospheric blue into white; below, a long plain of clouds. 

It really isn’t quite accurate to say the effects of recent events are unexpected. She’s appreciated the inherent hazard of fieldwork from the start. First thing they taught at the Academy: It wouldn’t be called S.H.I.E.L.D. if there wasn’t something to protect. But safely ensconced in SciOps, back at her lab, the harm of it always existed in the hypothetical; a notable aspect of extra-office work, yes, and an obvious one, given the objectives at hand. But the fear of it, or for it, the cold, stark possibility was largely muted against the overwhelming force of her excitability. 

Far below the clouds, she catches a flame-bright glimmer of fading sun. Twice this week, she’s woken up in a cold sweat, on the edge of a dream as wide and blue as a looming ocean. Lately she’s had enough of fieldwork to make her reevaluate, well, rather a lot about this whole “See world, have adventure” endeavor. Not enough to question it, because she still thinks she’s doing the right thing, being useful, and what’s more, she’s very good at what she does. But other things are beginning to look different now; invisible compounds reveal under different light, and danger is no longer a theoretical corollary of life as an agent in the field. 

That’s the thing about theory, it needs testing to find out if it holds up. 

She smooths the fabric of the comforter on Fitz' bed. It’s quiet on the bus tonight, Skye and Ward are dead to the world from training all day, and Coulson and May are elusive as ever. No one around to interrupt. Not that they would, really. Rarely do the others tread on what she and Fitz do together, in the lab or otherwise. It’s always been that way, which in retrospect seems odd in a way that it never did at the time: The way people around them have always seemed to flow right past without stopping, leaving the space they occupy undisturbed. It’s magnetic, they way she and Fitz are drawn together. How with a language invented of their own logic, they define themselves with a singular and absolute value. How they create a field for themselves, just big enough for two, populated by strong bonds that go between them, and by this newly introduced force. 

(Though, she suspects it is not new, nor recently introduced; that, in fact, like all the foundational forces, it is one that has been there, all along, beneath everything, undetected and awaiting discovery). 

Strong enough to hold them together, strong enough to compel her into a first-hand encounter with gravity if it would save his life. He'd have done the same for her, she knows. It's just how they are. A pair bond. A matched set. 

Strange. It took her so long to see that. 

Fitz makes a sound of excitement, something about the film as he hooks up the external monitor. “And here we go! Adaptor fixed, in case you didn’t notice. It wasn’t the port after all. Last time I buy computer accessories in an Asian street market. Nothing like poorly made firewire-knock offs to make you feel literally insane.” 

He runs a hand through his unruly curls, collapsing next to her on the bed. “Technology, some days. Good thing I’m not in that line of work, don’t you think?” He jokes, looking to her, smirking. _Get it?_ , he asks, silently. 

Much as she loves movie night, she really doesn’t feel like another terrible sci-fi explosion-fest this evening.

She plucks the remote from his hand, and tosses it aside. “Not tonight, Fitz.” 

“Jemma–” He opens his mouth in protest. She presses her lips to his before he can properly object. 

It’s weird for a moment, because it’s Fitz and new and her heart is pounding and it’s _Fitz_. But it’s also _wonderful_. She is conscious of a dozen things at once: the sweet spice of his aftershave, the warmth of his skin as she slides a hand along his collarbone, tangling in his hair. The moment of hesitation before he kisses her back, sweetly, then decisively, with purpose. His lips are surprisingly soft on hers, and it’s just gentle and just _not gentle_ enough to be entirely maddening. He winds his hands along her ribs, as if counting, as if measuring the distances between them and finding the difference too great. He pulls her closer. She smiles against his mouth, happy to oblige. 

They break apart after a moment and Fitz stares at her, eyes blue and wide with wonder. That’s a blue she could fall into always, and without fear. 

He swallows. “D’you know, I think I like your idea better.”

She tries what she hopes is a saucy sort of grin on for size. She’s not quite used to this feeling yet, this wheeling, wild, _sexiness_. But she likes it. She hopes it fits. “I didn’t ruin any grand plans?” 

“Oh, well, as a matter of fact, I did spend about forty minutes this morning trying to find a complete, high-quality version of that BBC special you wanted to see,” he says, smiling, and slips his hands just under the edge of her button-down. 

“There’s always after,” she says. She can’t stop smiling herself. There’s something bright bubbling up in her, threatening to run over. She lets it, laughing for a slew reasons she can’t yet distill out and kisses him again. 

“After?” Fitz asks around the curve of her lips, seeking clarification. 

“After.” And she pulls him down to better illustrate her point. 

Science requires experimentation. Proof demands evidence, and the work of it can be messy. But then, so is life, so are they, and right down to the vaulted chambers of her biologist heart this is a theory worth putting to the test, she feels. 

And though it goes against the empirical standards of her training, she is near to certain how it will all turn out.


End file.
